


Like Fists that Pass in the Night

by dancerinthedrink



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Bruises, Deductions, Dogs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Examination, Not Beta Read, Roommates, author knows nothing of victorian clothing or medical procedure but loves the aesthetic of both, but like physically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-05-16 18:39:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19323847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancerinthedrink/pseuds/dancerinthedrink
Summary: Down on his luck, Doctor John Waston lays a poor bet on a boxing match. Luckily Sherlock is able to enlighten him of the correct choice.





	1. The Meeting

I was pleasingly drunk on the night I was thrown out of my flat, mostly because I had thought I would be able to muster the cash that same evening with one very prudent boxing bet. The rest of the men around seemed to take to the same idea, their pounds dutifully marked down by the bookie in the favour of a rather large, muscular fighter instead of his much smaller, though no less fit, opponent. It was a sound bet, I told myself. A sure win to get me through the month until I was able to find employment at a newby clinic along the Wapping strand, an interview I had been entirely sober for. 

It was a decidedly jolly way to spend my evening, oscillating between the barrier of the ring and the makeshift bar, cups of brandy and neat sprays of blood from connecting fists. I did stick closer to the bar, not out of any sense of intemperance, but because viewing the needless violence of the fight went against my good nature: it was a doctor’s office to heal maladies, not facilitate them, so I comforted myself by believing the money I would earn would go towards my career of doing such good and that was _quid pro quo_ enough.

Quite a bit of anxiety swam through me as the smaller man held his own admirably against the man I backed though it was a joy to watch him fight. Like a dancer or a jungle cat playing with a meal, he dodged and delivered attacks with calculated ease, wedding his fist to the other man’s eye in a way that half-blinded the poor creature, making his offense lumberous and inelegant. I had forgotten to get a fresh drink I was so enthralled. Even the groans of the spectators could not bother me, though I should have been in chorus with them, seeing as I was supporting the losing pugilist. 

I was chatting - shouting, rather - with the chap next to me on the champion of last night’s brawl when a deafening holler drew our attention to the ring. A puff of dirt flew up from the ground and in its place lay a knife - a blunt, craftless thing, perhaps was seen as harmless by whoever threw it, but my profession had taught me the danger of blades of all keenness - which was promptly snatched away by the larger man. 

Out of his remaining eye, an evil glint lurked: malice clear as the blood on his chin, angled at his rival, who, despite the threat before him, possessed a perfect expression of serenity, much the same calm I had seen of men at the gallows, their necks warmed by an eyelet of rope. I lunged to the ring.

“He’ll kill him, you bollocks!” I cried but my voice was washed away by the roar of excitement that swept through the crowd, what seemed like thousands of men about to make a bundle of the fight and get the joy of killing chanted out foul curses I could not reproduce without a gross dismemberment of my character. 

I attempted to climb over the barrier to aid the poor man, but I was wrenched back by my collar and watched helplessly as a rasp told me I’d get myself killed if I didn’t stay sharp. 

The smaller man took only the briefest of pauses before charging at his opponent, bypassing him entirely with a spin to land a kick on the back of his knee. The larger man collapsed flat on his ample stomach, but managed to thrust himself from the dusty ground and, faster than I would have given him credit for, twisted and sliced the smaller man across the stomach. Rubies trailed in seedlings down his stomach and my breath caught in my throat. 

If the cut bothered him, he gave no indication; it widened and slimmed like a grotesque panting smile as he took a steadying breath. In a flash the larger man was back on his feet, glee from his success dripped past his squinting eye. He lurched forward, arm straight out, knifepoint winking like a star on the tip of the Clock Tower, ready to bury it into the soft flesh at the base of his opponent's throat. 

Thankfully - or rather not so, and as a doctor it makes me weep to say - the smaller man snapped that extended arm with a crack so loud the arena’s baying was drowned out, but not so loud that the man’s howls of pain weren’t vociferous in their own right. He fell to the ground again, cradling his elbow, the knife scattering the sawdust in its dropped path. Quick as a fox, the smaller man collected the weapon and held it aloft, raising his voice only so he could be heard over the whimpers of his dispatched rival.

“Would anyone like to claim their blade?” he said boldly, “Or,” he brought it down to admire it, his blood rusting where it had laid on the hilt, “shall I add it to my personal collection?” 

There was a low murmur, shuffling, but no one answered. The man shrugged.

“I suppose that makes it mine now.” As soon as he left the ring it was swarmed by men ready to spirit away the infirm to a hospital. I was swept up in the rabble and was able to communicate my profession to the crowd - not without sincere effort however, the rumble of talk had returned ferociously and people were attempting to tug him up by the broken arm; I had to knock a few patrons about to get close enough to scream - in order to set the wounded arm for the ride away. It was a clean break and once it was wrapped up, the man could limp on his own out of the place.

I retired to what remained of my whisky, intending to get ridiculously drunk with the little cash that would have gone towards my winnings to pay my landlord. If I was to spend the night on the street, there was no reason for me to remember it. 

Halfway to tipsy, a reluctant fist tugged on my sleeve and I, in a garish display of flailing limbs from out of a contemplative stupor, nearly hit the child who was the owner of the fist. A scruffed up urchin it was, somewhere in the valley of eight to ten, no doubt hired to sweep sawdust over bloodstains in the ring for a tuppence, but with a pair of keen eyes that gripped me acutely.

“You gotta be gettin’ on sir,” he said in a Cockney accent I was just barely able to decipher. Despite the endearing nature of his round face, I had no desire to face the fog-filled streets, stumble around corners to greet my landlord’s self-satisfied leer. I had to collect Gladstone tomorrow and, though it grieved me to spend a night without him, one of my landlord’s few virtues was his love of all things canine and would not toss out a well-behaved dog.

I wobbled from my barstool, lording over him. “No, boy. I don’t think I will.” 

“But you’ve got to sir. No one’s allowed to be ‘ere after the fights are done.” He tugged the brim of his hat, a stolen bowler by the look of it, in a gesture which conveyed his anxiety. I dislike being rude to children but I’m afraid I get rather confrontational when I drink. Gladstone could attest, having been on the wrong end of a rant or two over the state of our flat.

“I’ve never heard that rule before. I do believe I shall stay until I myself choose to live. You may take it up with your employer should he take umbrage with my decision.”

“He does, and rather strongly as so I might interject,” said the smaller man of the fight who, unbeknownst to me, had been quietly resting at the far end of the bar, a piece of bright red steak over his left eye dripping juice down his cheek. A fleck of dry tongue poked from the corner of his mouth to catch a drop.

Setting my shoulders in a more sober manner, I strutted up to the man. “And who might you be?” So said with my chin suck out at an audacious angle. I wasn’t looking for a fight but the booze coupled with my impending homelessness was doing wonders for my gall. He turned completely so he could see me with his uncovered eye and offered me his free hand, an offer I didn’t take him up on.

He was newly shirted with a stained patchwork of rags and his hair was crusted with the salt of perspiration. Even on the unveiled side of his face, bruises and minor cuts spangled his skin like buds in a garden. 

His hand returned to its place by his side he said, “Sherlock Holmes, pleasured to make your acquaintance. And now you may take your acquiescence. This is a very austere establishment as you’ve no doubt witnessed. Very harsh punishments for boys caught out of their beds after nine o’clock.” The urchin furiously patted his leg and he looked down. “What is it Fosberry?”

“You ‘aven’t paid me yet sir. You promised me a shilling for telling the old man to beat it.”

“Old man,” I spluttered with some indignity. They both ignored me.

“Yes, but he’s still here isn’t he?”

“Doesn’t matter. You never said ‘e ‘ad to be gone, only that I ‘ad to tell ‘im.”

“Very well. You drive a hard bargain, my short friend.” He rifled around in his pockets, the rustling of paper was louder than any clinking of pence. He glanced at me. “You wouldn’t happen to have a shilling I could borrow.”

So astonished was I that it was several agonizing moments before I ceased my fish-like gaping and answered, “Certainly not. Even if I had a million shillings, they would not be up for borrowment from you.” I had thought to be a rather keen bit of dispute but he seemed unbothered by it and merely pulled a rumpled piece of pound from his trousers. The boy’s jaw drops as it is placed into his open hands.

“Now don’t let the others catch you with that,” That Holmes fellow said knowingly.

“I won’t sir.” The boy’s eyes were wide and his grin might have split his cheeks. He tipped his hat at the both of us and scurried out of the room. Holmes wore the same sort of grin and went to turn back to nursing his black eye, and I would have been very rough to recapture his attention if he had not winced sharply, his hand flying to his side.

Swiftly, I knelt, my knees hit with a shock of pain from the hard floor, and took him by the waist, pushing up the hem of his shirt to see the dreadful cut adorned with dried blood and half-scabbed; obviously, it had not been treated. I interrupted his protestations. “Have you seen a doctor yet?”

“N-no, I have not. I suppose grabbing me about the middle is your way of offering your services. Should you act this way with all your patients I would believe you would have been better off getting a degree in law.” His hands were calloused as he peeled my touch from him. Decidedly brusque, I returned to my feet, the dust off my knees falling like dismal snowflakes when I brushed it away. My doctor’s bag had been left at the foot of my bar stool and I retrieved it without consulting Holmes. He tossed his head, irritated, once he saw the bag clenched in my fist. “I don’t require a doctor. My drink and some peace shall be treatment enough.”

“Is there a place where I could tend to you in private?” Patients, especially men, could be particularly recalcitrant when it came to be taken care of by a doctor; they much enjoyed the babying of nursemaids or their spouses than the remotely platonic bedside manner of a fellow male.

Except on the battlefield. Then the men were desperate for amelioration from either sex and I took great pains to shed the brusque bedside manner I had developed for dealing with metropolitan patients. 

Fosberry popped his head past the doorframe. “Upstairs is a bed and a basin,” the fellow conveyed brightly.

“Damn you Fosberry,” mumbled Holmes into his cup. Sighing, “I suppose you won’t leave me to my peace until you have conducted an examination.”

“You suppose correctly. Shall we?” I said, gesturing towards the rickety stairwell. We ascended the staircase, I behind him on the chance he might stumble and require support. 

The room upstairs was not one I would call medically appropriate but it would have to do. I was not about to drag him halfway across London to break into a suitable clinic.

I had him remove his shirt and lie down on the undressed mattress as I scoured the apartment for a chair. On further inspection, the wound was found to be a laceration of skin and, while large, would not be at a high risk for infection. With what remained of the last caller’s toilette, I washed out the cut with a small towel and bound it sturdily with a length of linen bandage. 

Throughout my care of him, Holmes emitted theatrical grunts of fabricated pain to my consternation. Driven to the breaking point I cried, “Would you stop that! I don’t have to be doing this, you know.”

“You mean you’re going to go?” Holmes said, his voice soaring with hope.

“No. Lie back down if you please.” He obeyed, disgruntled, and threw an arm across his eyes. His forehead and cheeks were decorated with a panoply of bruises and smaller cuts like a child’s shell adorned sandcastle and, in order to reach them, I removed his arm, heavy with muscle in my hand. 

“Ghastly,” he said, though prostrate as a penitent, “I can’t even lay my arm where I choose. Have I, being abducted by the wrong sort of doctor, been taken for a lunatic for the asylum?”

“I would say so,” I mumbled as I dabbed at the contusions with all the delicacy I could muster, Holmes being predisposed to chanciness, winced sharply with every touch that went too deep. “Despite the assumptions you may have of your constitution, my experience tells me repeated attacks aren’t particularly healthy. For your sake, I hope you don’t make it a habit to be brutalized before an audience.”

On the proximity I acquired I could see he had a rather handsome face underneath the mask of injury. Large, dark, probing eyes that had seen more hurt than I ever had. High cheekbones that curved into a strong clefted chin. His hair was the mess of clustered grapes Wilde wrote of Iokanaan’s. He tilted the fancy cranium up to me, cupid’s bow budding in disgrace.

“And for your pocketbook, I hope you choose better subjects to place your bets on.”

With a suspicious lift on my chin, I asked, “And how did _you_ know whom I bet upon?”

“Simple. Who wouldn’t? When comparing me and my unfortunate opponent, I would have chosen him as well, at least, if I hadn’t taken a second look. You, half-drunk, would choose him but I would sincerely hope sober you would have the acumen to direct your cash elsewhere.”

“But was wrong with him? He was strong and held his own quite spectacularly against you.”

“Strong! Yes!” He cried and sat up with the speed of a jack-in-the-box so that my hands flew to my throat with the shock of it. He peered at me. “You see but you do not observe. While the specimen of which we speak was my superior in both height and width, his health was not one to trifle with. If you had the look at him I did you would have recognized the telltale signs of cataracts in his left eye thus my first goal was to attack the right, effectively blinding him and giving the game over to me.” Satisfied, he fell back against the bed, sending a minute puff of dandruff which I waved away absentmindedly. 

“The question of strength, still. You might have taken his sight but that by no means gives up the ghost, He took up much more of the ring and would still have been able to knock you about once he located you with a fist.”

“But to punch one must be orientated on one’s feet.” Again, in excitement, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and leaned closer so we were nose to nose and the waft of his whisky breath crept inside my nostrils. “Another instance you failed to noticed was the length of his legs, the nature of his gait. A fraction shorter was his right leg to the left. You may be forgiven for such a mistake had he been wearing his boots as the base of the right shoe was stuffed with stockings to even out his mismatched steps. To get him to his knees, all I needed to do was exploit this weakness. The fight would have been decisively mine had that blasted knife been thrown into the mix, forcing me to improvise. And, like all good games, something might require sacrifice to win.” He ran his palm over his bandaged torso. “Luckily that sacrifice did not result in my victory being Pyrrhic.”

“Next time, then, I shall put my money on your wisdom. If only I had been sharper in my judgments tonight.”

“You don’t need to.” A hand descended into his pocket then returned full of pounds. He uncurled my fist from where it held the cleaning cloth and deposited the notes across my palm. Dumbfounded, I stared at the pile of money until I remembered my manners and shoved it back to him. In an abrupt motion that startled my companion back, I stood and stalked to the dwindling basin.

“I don’t need your charity. It was my own fault, my own failure to observe, as you so eloquently put it, the obvious loser in our fight. Keep your spoils for the orphans.” Doused in the few centimetres of water, the cloth returned to a shade of heavy grey while the water turned a salmon from what little blood diffused through the liquid, a colour I was sure matched the back of my neck with how it burned.

“Then consider it payment for your services. Please.” A grunt and a pattering sounded behind my ears. “I’d hate for you to have spend your night on the streets when you are given the means to pay your rent.”

I spun to find Holmes offering up a sheaf of pounds, an arm wrapped around his middle. At first, I was quite perturbed: I _had_ told him I wanted none of his winnings but after a moment’s thought my eyes narrowed with suspicion. “How did you know that?” I asked.

“Know what?”

“That I needed rent money. I never mentioned a thing.”

“Oh.” He frowned, more at himself than me. “That.”

“Yes, _that_.”

“Well, your coat is the most obvious sign.”

“My coat?” I wasn’t wearing it at present though I had draped it over the back of my chair.

“Yes. It’s quite out of fashion, wouldn’t you say? Its current length is obviously not its original cut and, while well tailored to your size, was not made for your ruling girth. There are patches of varying colouring throughout the inner lining so unless you are very careless, they can only mean a long time of wear and repair. And though it is a splendid piece of costuming it is not recently made. In addition to the quality of the coat, there is an embroidered name on the back of the collar: Yisrael. Thus, I can only surmise you have bought the coat secondhand from a Jewish gentleman.

“Then there is your scent. Now don’t look alarmed. Whilst you were bent over me tending to my wounds I caught the faint whiff of formaldehyde on your skin. This I deduced during your treatment, that as skilled you are as a doctor of the living that your occupation as a doctor of the dead couldn’t be an ideal situation.”

“Finally your presence here is the deciding factor. It rather much like an ouroboros when you think of it. Your lack of funds drew you here in desperation for money but it also blinded you from selecting the choicest contender. The shallow strength of our fallen friend seemed like an easy method for earning enough money to, if not pay your rent entirely, find pleasant lodgings for tonight.”

I stood agape, snapping out of my impoliteness to deliver a stuttering, “That’s correct.”

“Hmm?” Holmes had left my presence to scrounge through my coat pockets and found my cigarette and matches and was in the action of lighting one. “Oh yes. I seldom am incorrect.”

“Well Mr Holmes despite your intelligence you are still my patient and I would ask you to return to the bed so I may finish on your face.” I straightened my waistcoat and gave an authoritative nod at the bed. Grumbling, he lay down, sans cigarette as I purloined it from his lips to squish its fiery tip on the headboard. I completed what little examination there needed to be done on him and gathered my things as he pulled his shirt over his head. The satisfaction of a job well done would have to warm me tonight. The nerves of my impending homelessness ascended to my intestines, clutching them, twisting them, or whatever metaphor is in the realm of realistic medical ailment.

“Wait.” Holmes, still struggling through his shirt, stumbled after me, gripped the collar of my coat. I shrugged him away.

“If you need an official diagnosis, you’ve barely escaped being stabbed and I recommend a rigourous round of visiting a hospital after such an occurrence. I-” I gave him a look of reproach and pushed his money back at him. “I don’t need your money. Please. You’ve earned it fairly; I did not.” 

In a state of flounder, he chewed on his lip before an idea sparked below his dark hair. “Then come to my flat.”

“Excuse me?” I raised a brow.

“If you won’t let me pay you for your services let me at least give you a place to stay until you find your way back into your our privacy. You would have had half of this had you been straight enough for analysis.” So earnest and imploring was his expression, I could hardly say no (no matter how much I shouldn’t have; staying with a ruffian was hardly the ideal place to be guest).

“Fine. But one condition.”

He lifted his head, grinning brightly. “Name your price.”

“I get to bring my dog.”


	2. The Bargin

After he had fit himself into a waistcoat and jacket, we set off to my flat. I would have led the way in a brisk fashion if I hadn’t been worried the exercise would split open Holmes’s wound so instead we ambled next to one another, elbows bumping in the half-drunk motion bodies will enter like sailboats in the wind. 

We chatted about our occupations. I learned he was a detective, a fine position for the skills he had earlier demonstrated, and I spoke of my military history quite candidly. Rarely did I share such intimate details of my history with a virtual stranger so soon in our acquaintance, but the speed with which he discerned my financial status made me eager to supply information rather than have him mention something I had never told him and be very frightened over the very clothes on my back being garish signs blaring my each and every shortcoming.

He was still carrying around the bloody steak over his eye. I had offered to create a makeshift eyepatch for him out of bandages but he waved me away, saying it would be a gift for my dog meanwhile icing his bruised eye with the meat.

Arriving at my tenement, the lights for the most part extinguished except at the highest leftmost corner - penthouse suite it was joked - that housed the infamous Mrs Waters who kept a nocturnal sleep schedule and was rumoured to take guests for money, myself, never having seen evidence of this particular vice, knew her only as the women that wore maroon every Sunday and said ‘goodday’ to me in a contralto trill whenever we passed on the stairs. Though the light on the street was gloomlit, streetlamps gleaming through fog down the lane like will o’wisps, it was by the high hung light Holmes and I were able to see the open trunk before we stumbled over it.

The trunk, my trunk I should confirm before I continue, was split open on the street and pools of clothes, my clothes, were scattered about the grit between the cobblestones. Shirts, trousers, suit jackets out of sorts like severed body parts in a gruesome crime scene.

“Blast!” I exclaimed upon witnessing. “The bastard’s gone and thrown my things from the window!” For confirmation, I glanced up to the imposing building to see the window to my flat wide open, muslin curtains flapping in the wind, clear evidence of the defenestration. 

I dropped to my knees, infuriated, cursing, as I stuffed my shirts back into the trunk. 

“My god. He really did, didn’t he?” said Holmes, unable to resist a bemused smile.

“Yes. The Godforsaken bastard. He gave me until Tuesday to pay my rent. Tuesday! And here it is, barely Sunday evening and he’s tossed me out like a common criminal!”

“It must really be Monday by now,” Holmes mused.

“Don’t you start,” I said to him. I lowered my voice, raging under my breath. “I’ve been on time with the rent for thirteen months. What does it matter if that was _on_ the day of eviction instead of ahead of it? But he lets his mistress stay rent-free, next door to his _wife_ and _children_ so at least his merits are on clear display, so far as he as none.” So used to talking to myself was I, a ubiquitous product of my isolation, Holmes’s presence fell by the wayside as I chattered and recounted the horrors of my landlord’s personal life and I did not notice him creeping closer until he interrupted my turbulent monologue.

“Neighbouring his mistress to his wife and children, you say. What a scoundrel! I must meet the man immediately.” Holmes brushed away a messy swath of hair and turned on his heel towards the door. I caught his arm. He looked back, amusement curling on his lip.

“Don’t bother. I can’t deal with a row. Not tonight. Look, I’ll pay him next month if he hasn’t shopped out my room by then.” Silently pleading with a grave look in my eyes, I dropped his arm and he stepped back. With a resigned sign, most of the anger gone out of me, I went back to gathering up my wardrobe. Holmes joined me on the ground.

I recoiled. “What are you doing?” I didn’t want him to irritate his wound and he was bent over folding a shirt of mine. 

He supplied a smile, my trouser leg dangling centimetres from sweeping against the gravel. “Folding your clothes? You don’t want them to come out wrinkled once you unpack again.”

I let him be and even indulged in his neatness myself. It was quieting work despite the pain it inflicted on my knees, beside Holmes, resigned to one task at a time. 

I explained to him as best I could in as few words I would deign to give my landlord the gossip of him and the statuesque burlesque showgirl he had taken up with several months ago, a one Lila Poeybloom who had captured his heart with one rousing verse of ‘Daddy Won’t Buy Me a Bow-Wow’ and left a Gretal-like trail of false feathers through the halls of the tenement.

At least until I held up my greatcoat and a note fluttered out of it. Thinking it was some old prescription or an unpaid bill, I turned it over with little curiosity to glance at the wide shorthand that was in no way similar to my own script. 

_Waston_

_It has come to my attention your inability to pay rent on time is a symptom of larger irresponsibilities. For the good of your pup Gladstone, I have claimed custody over him. He shall live in comfort and stability. You may enter your new life knowing he is well taken care of._

_Glad to be rid of you,_  
_Your ex-landlord,_

_Robert Honeycomb_

I jumped up like a bullet fired from a gun.

“The bastard’s stolen my dog!” I cried. I made for the front steps only to be jerked back by a strong arm around my middle, knocking the wind from me. 

“Perhaps a moment of thought would be prudent in this circumstance,” said Holmes against my struggling.

“Unhand me.” My voice came out strained. “I need to rescue my dog.”

“May I see the letter?” Nebulous to the order, I passed it to him anyway, hoping it would give me the opportunity to break from him. A false hope, he was much stronger than he looked. I could feel the curves of his muscles dig into my ribcage in not a wholly uncomfortable sensation. He finished reading with a satisfied hum of intrigue and put the letter in my pocket so it rested securely against my thigh.

“Do you see now? This scoundrel thinks he can take better care of my dog than I can. Never mind the bastard can barely handle a couple of babies and two women!” I raised my voice at that part, directing it as high as it would reach, and Holmes smothered me under his palm, hiding his laughter in my shoulder.

“What if-” another laugh, “we went in together? As a united front. Two against one would have a much better chance of convincing your landlord to free his hostage. Besides, you might need someone skilled in the art of combat if things get hairy.”

“I don’t predict I’ll need to use force. He’s a very squirrelly sort of man.”

Still, I allowed him to join me and after stashing the trunk where it wouldn't be purloined, we used my key to enter the building.

We were courteous with our noise, it was still night and some of the tenets had young children, I knew and wound up the staircase until we came to the only door with light bleeding out from under it like a crime scene, which, housing a thief, it was. I gestured to Holmes to stay put then burst through the door without preamble.

What I saw when I entered disgusted me to no end.

Mr Honeycomb was at his dining table, coddling with _my dog_. Cooing at him and feeding him bits of cookie dough. To Gladstone’s credit, he looked miserable, his bulldog’s face drooping more than normal to give him a smothered, melting appearance. 

“Honeycomb,” I barked. At the sound of my voice, Gladstone perked up and woolfed in my direction. I kept my resolve strong but it wavered as I heard the jingling of his tag as he struggled to get loose. “Honeycomb, I demand you give me back my dog.”

His thin, puckered face was lit from below by the paraffin lamp. He held fast Gladstone against the dog’s shuffling, his rolls of fat making the task a difficult one. “I refuse. You have shown yourself to be quite unworthy of owning such a beast and I shall be a very very good master to him so can just...shove off.” 

“Pardon me?” A manic grin appeared on my face. Babbling incoherent threats, Honeycomb, with his obscenely long legs, pushed back in his chair like he was pedaling a penny-farthing at high speeds until he hit the far wall with a smack. I hadn’t moved an inch.

Flustered, he heaved himself and Gladstone from the chair.

“You will do no good with intimidation,” he said, muffling his voice in the adipose on Gladstone’s neck. His small eyes, like pinpricks of light in the dim, burned through me with a genuine hate.

I stepped forward until we were almost nose to nose. I placed a protective hand on Gladstone’s massive head. Very much was he forced to stoop in his own flat, for the ceiling could not accommodate his grand height. Even though Honeycomb was a head and a half taller than I, his stature in no way perturbed me. “I have done no such thing. You are the one at fault. I don’t which church you attend on Sundays but I have small doubt that whoever preaches there tolerates the theft of living creatures!”

“Daddy?” A small voice came from the shadow of an open door. Honeycomb’s attention immediately left me to focus on the sopranic tones. “Why are you shouting?”

“It’s nothing Eliza, sweetie. Go back to bed,” Honeycomb called, as if on cue, to the room, trying to coax a modicum of control into his voice. He shot a fevered glance at me, searching for an excuse or an assist, but I was equally at a loss. 

The nightgowned form shuffled sleepily into the light. One little fist rubbing an eye, the girl was rather short, no more than five years old at my modest estimation, and had flaxen, sleep-rumpled hair crowding the spaces in front of her eyes. 

“I heard shouting.”

“No, you didn’t my love. Everything is alright, just go back to bed.”

“Why do you have a puppy, Daddy?” she asked, continuing her approach. Awkwardly, I moved back as the enfant traveled to her father’s knee. She tugged on his trouser leg. “Is he ours? I don’t think I like him. He is very ugly, Daddy. Could we have a silky one?”

“No, sweetie. Would you go back to bed if I gave you another kiss?” They looked a strange pair together, an oak tree and the baby chipmunk pawing at a knot in the trunk.

“Maybe. Could I want a glass of milk?”

“Do you mean you want a glass of milk?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Will you go to bed after you’ve had your milk?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Instead of releasing Gladstone onto the floor where I could scoop him up and make a run for it, he opened a second door and tossed him inside. Rather roughly as my poor dear fellow make quite the squeal when he landed.

I took a seat at the table, figuring I had earned that right, as Honeycomb went through the business of finding a teacup and a quarter-full bottle of milk. Eliza stood aimlessly in the middle of the room, swaying in the exhausted yet energized way children often have, but soon grew bored of that routine and toddled over to me, regarding me curiously with her clouded brown eyes.

“Daddy, who is this?”

I would have answered, but honestly, there was something in the child that unsettled me. Perhaps it was her disheveled appearance or her probing gaze that seemed to look through me and pierce the very heart of me at the same time or the way she sprung from the darkness like a ghost.

In my average day, I had little interaction with children. Even before my unemployment, rarely were my clients every below the age of fifteen and when they were of ankle-biting age, they at least did me the courtesy of speaking to me directly.

Regardless, I would not have known to explain our situation to her anyhow. It was getting ridiculous. Two grown men, one married with children, quarreling over the ownership of a dog like two street urchins over water-logged pair of shoes.

“No one,” said Honeycomb, strained at the throat.

“But why is he in our house?”

“Because he’s visiting. You know, visiting? Like...when Granny comes for Christmas-”

“But it isn’t Christmas,” she protested.

“He’ll leave soon, don’t worry.” Honeycomb swept over to her and lifted her under her arms up onto the table like she was as light as a kitten and handed her a cup of milk. She drank it all in one go, and Honeycomb, crouching down to her level, looked her straight in the eye. “Are you ready to go back to bed now?”

She nodded and again he swooped her up to deposit her in the room. I heard the theatrical smack of a kiss as I snuck over to the other door - Gladstone’s prison - and turned the knob. Silent as a burglar, though with much effort, I pushed open the door a crack. As I peered in I saw Gladstone lying against the door, his head on his paws, pouting.

“Gladstone,” I whispered and he perked up in an instant. “Gladstone, I am going to need you to move aside. Can you do that for me, old chum?”

Loyal to a fault, he leapt up and moved back enough for me to enter, fall to my knees, and rub his ears. 

“Good boy, Gladstone,” I cheered him as he snuffled up to my stomach, lifting one of his heavy paws to make sure I was real. Too enfolded in my jubilation, I didn’t notice a presence enter behind me and shut the door.

“You aren’t taking him anyway,” Honeycomb said.

I stood, hoping the width of muscle I had would make up for my lack of length in his comparison. “And you are no longer my landlord. I have no reason to follow your orders. Stand aside.”

“I don’t think I will.” He stepped towards me, a living shadow in the pitch of the bedroom. Gladstone whimpered next to my ankle. I crouched to comfort him. With his dog’s eyes, he could see much better in the darkness than either of us human and what he saw he clearly didn’t like. His warm body trembled against my leg.

“Can’t you see you’ve frightened him? Is that what you want? Someone you can lord over and control. He doesn’t want to stay with you so let him leave.”

“Bobby, darling. Please, would you shut up? It’s very late. If you want to argue with Mr Watson, would you do it out of the bedroom?” Another woman’s voice can from the lump on the bed I’d hardly noticed when I’d slipped in. Though I couldn’t see Honeycomb’s face, I was sure he was colouring. 

“Yes, of course, my dear,” he said sheepishly.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I said. My hand was curled around Gladstone’s collar, ready to drag him to freedom as soon as I was able.

“Sorry Lila,” said Holmes, poking his head through the door. He brought with him a sheaf of light that not only blinded myself and Honeycomb for a split second but illuminated the fearsome countenance of Mrs Honeycomb which sparked with fury. 

“Lila? Robert, is he referring to that fan-dancer in F34? I require an explanation immediately. Why does he suppose she is in your bed after midnight?”

Her glare, so gorganesque, her husband was rooted in place like a stone statue until Holmes attempted to rectify his mistake by saying, “I apologize Mrs Honeycomb. Couldn’t see you well in the dark. Goodnight, my lady,” and by taking Honeycomb by the wrist to whisk him from the scene.

“Mr Watson,” she said, her anger no dimmer, “why are you here?”

“I’m moving out. I was here to return my keys.”

“Well, if you’re leaving, stay gone. And take the wretched pup with you.” She pounded her fist into her pillow, trying to plump it up. She fell cheek-first into it. “Can’t stand it when Bobby takes him in. Scratches at the door all hours of the night.”

I was eager to obey, yanking my dog along behind me to find Honeycomb with a face full of scarlet and Holmes digging through his cupboards.

“What’s going on here?” I asked.

“Watson, you’re just in time. You wouldn’t happen to know where this gent keeps his teabags? It was my idea that a little nip would do us all some good.” He turned to me, and his face lit up. “This must be Gladstone!” He knelt, rubbing my boy’s ears. “We’ve gone through an awful lot of trouble to get you, haven’t we? Haven’t we? I’ve got something for you.” Out of his pocket, he drew the soggy piece of meat he had been using on his eye at the boxing match. 

Honeycomb threw an elbow over his nose, edging around the room to be as far as possible from the scene. “That is disgusting.” He held himself back from retching. I couldn’t blame him; I was equally nauseated.

“You kept that?”

“I wasn’t exactly going to waste it by leaving it in an alley for the rats to get fat off. Once I heard your story about the dog, I knew it would be perfect.” Crumpled up in his pocket it had turned into more of a bloody waterfall, yet Gladstone, upon receiving his gift, jumped to gnawing on the thing. “Yes, good boy,” Holmes said, giving Gladstone one final pat - and me a coy smile - before rising.

“That’s it,” said Honeycomb, regaining some semblance of dignity, “get out.”

“Gladly. Watson, Gladstone.”

“The dog stays here.”

“Then so do we. Until the time comes we can come up with a civil solution to this. Now, tea?”

Honeycomb glared at him. 

“We can take whisky, too.” 

Continued glaring.

“I’m sure your wife wouldn’t mind serving us. Let’s wake her up, shall we? I think there’s an interesting conversation to be had with her about one Lila Posybloom, of Olyphants’ Music Hall fame.”

Without ceasing his glare, at this point, I was sure his wife had frozen his face to stone, Honeycomb retrieved a bottle of whiskey and a glass. He poured Holmes a finger. He drank it down, finishing with a smile.

While pouring out more whisky: ”I’d like to be sure neither of you will interrupt me whilst I speak. Can I rely on you to do that? Just until I finish; the second I’m done you can cut in whatever you’d like. Alright, good?

“So, it appears we have a predicament. There is a dog you both profess ownership to. Now, I, for one, have little knowledge of the realm of the canine and so cannot speak to the value inherent in this hound, but he has a pleasant temper which should be enough. Yet, despite the level want for this dog, I have decided there is only one correct path we can take. Watson, please, my dear, hold your peace.

“On arriving at your fine building, Mr Honeycomb, I was greeted by a fine snow of linens across the cobblestones. Judging by the wide disbursement of the clothing and a vocal identification by our Mr Watson, who thenceforth looked up at the top of the tenement that stood before us, in addition to the positioning of dust on the clothes as well as the broken lock on his luggage trunk, I was able to deduce the lot if it was thrown from the window of Mr Watson’s suite rather than the trunk being placed outside and rummaged through by an unlucky passerby. 

“When Watson led me upstairs, I remained outside of your flat while he entered. While on my own I felt on top of the door jamb and found a key which, upon experimentation, I found fit into your lock. Again, dust is a key assistant, for the amount of dust on your door jamb is next to nil, so unless you, Mr Honeycomb, are an avid housekeeper, or your wife is, which, judging by the state of your flat, isn’t something either of you two are used to, the explanation for the absence of dust is if someone is fumbling along the top of your door jamb for the key.

“Now, having an extra key on hand is certainly no crime, but it is strange why it would remain without for anyone to take while young children sleep within. The key must then belong to someone who is confident they could fend off an intruder and used by someone allowed entrance at hours of the day where knocking is an unavailable option. Not to mention the height of the door. Mr Honeycomb, I’m sure you have suffered no shortage of diminutives based around your stature, but it is true that no one but yourself, or someone who owns quite a lot of pairs of tall shoes, could reach the height required to reach said key.

“These deductions led me to mistake your lawful wife as your paramour, Lila Posybloom. For only a woman who is not concerned about the welfare of vulnerable children, who leaves a key free in the hallway for someone who possessing such a key on their person would be a suspicion, who lives in a squalor that shows they are unbeholden to another person’s comfort led me to believe this apartment belonged to a bachelorette. Obviously I am wrong.

“While being an adulterer doesn’t preclude you from being a good dog owner but being a man in debt might.

“The whisky you have so generously offered Watson and myself is a poor brand. Cheap. And your furnishings are quite bare. There aren’t even any pillows on your bed. Yet you still have the funds to have a fresh suit and to have attended the barber’s recently. A man who tries to look his best and spend the time he could be in bed with his wife in his kitchen with a dog. Rather odd don’t you think.

“So, due to the complex nature of your personal life and the amount of cash it would take to feed this beast of a pup, I dub Mr Watson the better home for Gladstone to attend.”

During his explanation, Holmes and I passed the whisky back and forth while Honeycomb glowered on, on the verge of interruption at the end of every sentence. I was in high spirits though, mostly from the drink, no matter the claim it was cheap.

Honeycomb stepped forward. “Mr Holmes, I can’t say you’ve presented a single fair argument. You focused on all the negative on me and nothing on Mr Watson.” He was playing the role of the sympathete, a role assumed whenever he evicted someone for an arbitrary reason - falsely understanding, dripping with an irony the person on the business end of it was often too in their cups or their emotions to notice.

“My mistake Mr Honeycomb. Watson, do you have to say anything in your defense?”

“He’s my dog.”

“An excellent case you make there.” Holmes turned to my landlord. “Surely you can understand that. Now, Mr Honeycomb, I know I have been rather verbose this evening - probably morning, as I told Watson, but no matter - but I urge you to listen to my last string of words to find a particularly polished bead. I suggest you let us set off in the company of Gladstone, climb into bed with your wife, and in the morning, recommend a new tenement form Miss Posybloom; somewhere with reasonable rent; dancers aren’t known for their wealth.”

Gaze leveled at Gladstone, Honeycomb began stalking towards us

“Never in a million-”

“Quite right,” Holmes piped up. “Watson?”

I wrapped my arms around Gladstone’s middle. “Ready when you are.”

He stood and faced down the wasp-thin man with all the alacrity that could be mustered in such a situation. “It has been a wonder meeting you. Truly, sir. If I could do it all again, I would. We must really meet up together. Bring your lovely wife. What was her name nowRUN!”

Quick as a hare, I snatched Gladstone from his steak and took off through the door and around and around the tenement stairs and didn’t stop running until I was thoroughly out of breath and I could hear Holmes’s triumphant cheers gaining on me.


End file.
